In Every Universe
by minachandler
Summary: "A soulmate is someone who you carry with you forever." Dawson's Creek Three universes in which Laurel and Nyssa find each other and one universe where Laurel only realises when it's too late.
It's strange that the first time Laurel hugs Nyssa is almost a year after their first meeting. Part of Laurel expects Nyssa to stiffen at her touch, but perhaps to both their surprise, Nyssa hugs her back just as tightly.

It's unexpected, for both of them, really, but especially for Laurel, because even as she envelopes Nyssa in her arms and breathes in the faint scent of sweat and blood, she can't quite believe Nyssa's really _here_ , in Palmer Technologies, in Starling.

"I never thought I would see you again," Nyssa whispers to her.

"Me neither," Laurel agrees. "But I'm glad you found your way back to me."

"Believe me," Nyssa says softly, still with her face buried in Laurel's shoulder, "there is no place I would rather be."

It's with those words – and a cough from just behind her – that they part, and Laurel remembers Malcolm and Ray are also present.

"Uh, do we need to give you guys the room too?" Ray says half-jokingly, but it seems he immediately regrets it when Nyssa shoots him a death glare.

"What's the plan now, then?" Laurel says instead. "I can go and talk to my dad. Not sure if it'll do any good but I can try."

"I should go with you," Nyssa says instantly.

Laurel shakes her head. "No, you should stay here with Malcolm, try and figure out where the League is. You two will have a better idea of their possible location." And when Nyssa opens her mouth to object, Laurel says, "Trust me. I can handle myself." Laurel smiles. "Besides. I had a pretty kickass teacher."

Nyssa smiles back, and then Ray interjects helpfully, "And in the meantime, I can start trying to formulate an inoculant. Should be tricky making it airborne, but hey – I do love a challenge."

Nyssa nods curtly at Ray before turning to Laurel.

"You are coming back," Nyssa says firmly. It's not a question or a request but an order – one Laurel is more than willing to accept.

"I promise."

Laurel does return to Nyssa – just as she promised she would. And over the following year they find themselves bidding each other farewell too many times.

A few days later, surreptitiously Nyssa gets out of Laurel's bed and after quickly gathering her belongings, she drops a fleeting kiss on Laurel's forehead before leaving. Months after that, Laurel finds herself tearfully kissing Nyssa goodbye through the bars of the League's prison where Nyssa insisted she stay. And several months after that, Laurel waves Nyssa away with only a touch of melancholy in her smile as Nyssa boards a ship set for somewhere sunny and warm, far away from the sands of Nanda Parbat.

Each time they say goodbye both Laurel and Nyssa fear it will be their last. And it's certainly a strong possibility – Laurel's a vigilante and Nyssa's an assassin, after all. People in either line of work are usually only a stone's throw away from danger.

But somehow a kind of force seems to draw their souls together, time after time, again and again. It's the kind of constant that – unbeknownst to either of them – transcends far beyond the earth they stand on, insistently pulling them towards each other despite the world's best efforts to keep them apart.

It's the kind that can be felt on every earth – all fifty-two of them.

In earth-2, for instance, Laurel's a CIA agent tasked with taking out Ameena al Ghul, an Arab killer for hire who – rumour has it – is former MI6 and has intelligence that could cripple America's national security.

It takes Laurel a full week to track her down in Marrakech, but eventually she finds the somewhat shabby motel her target is staying at. She's been casing her with far more difficulty than she's used to, and Laurel doesn't care what anyone says – she's a damn good spy. This Ameena woman is just a damn good assassin is all.

Still, if there is one thing Laurel Lance is, it's relentless, and once she's got her eyes on the prize that is it. And when finally she's outside her target's room, .45 at the ready, she's surprised when the door creaks a little before she's even touched it.

It's unlocked.

Laurel clicks off the safety of her gun, very slowly pushing open the door and then stepping inside the room. A cursory glance tells her no one's there – the bed is empty, and so is the closet, with one door hanging open and the other taken completely off its hinges and resting against the wall. It's a small room, nothing special, but small enough for her to realise it's vacant in a matter of seconds.

"Katana, the room's empty," Laurel says. She waits for her partner to respond, but instead she is greeted with silence. "Katana, I repeat, room is empty. Do you copy? Katana?"

Still there's nothing. Gun still in hand, Laurel switches frequencies. "Oracle, this is Black Canary. I need an ETA on Katana immediately."

"She's not responding," Barbara replies, and Laurel automatically breathes a sigh of relief at her friend's voice.

"Babs, thank God. What's going on? The target's not here. And something's not right – the door was open when I got here."

There's a pause, and Laurel can faintly hear the sound of Barbara typing furiously.

"Canary, get out of there now. Thermal imaging is showing –"

Laurel winces, for at that moment Barbara's voice is cut off and replaced with the high pitch of feedback in her earpiece. She tugs it out of her ear and in that moment her concentration wavers – too late, she notices a dark figure bursting through the open window via a zipline and landing on the floor and knocking Laurel off her feet with the graceful agility of a cat.

In the split second it takes for her reflexes to kick in, Laurel barely has time to lift her gun before the world starts to spin. And somehow – just before everything goes black – she manages to register a faint prick in the side of her neck. The tranq dart leaves her fingers just as her legs give way beneath her.

When Laurel comes to, she finds herself on the bed in the motel room. Her arms are aching, and when she senses the black scarf tying her wrists to the bedpost, she realises why. Laurel tries to tug herself free, but her restraints are securer than she anticipated, and it's as her vision clears that her assailant comes into view.

She's a couple of inches taller than Laurel, in all black, sharp cheekbones and dark hair that falls past her shoulders. She's carrying a bow – a compact hybrid, most likely – and has a quiver full of arrows, along with an array of knives and daggers holstered on her thighs.

"Where's my partner?" Laurel demands.

"Alive," the woman replies. She smiles slightly. "Katana, is it? I did not know it was customary to name oneself after a sword, but I must say, I approve. That… and I feel honoured to meet the great Taer Jameelah in person."

It takes Laurel a moment to translate. "'Pretty bird'?" she says. "That's what your people call me?"

"Accurate, is it not?" her assailant says with a slight smirk.

"Yeah, I'm flattered," Laurel replies sarcastically. "Kind of funny coming from you, _Ameena_. What is it your name is meant to mean, again? 'Trustworthy'?

And somehow, to Laurel's surprise, that comment seems to get under her captor's skin.

"I have not heard that name in a long time," she replies. "I was… named after my mother, but I have never felt that I deserve such a name, which I believe must be earned. Instead I am known as Nyssa."

"Huh," says Laurel, and she's trying not to soften at Nyssa's words but it's hard when the other woman looks almost human to Laurel for a moment. Relatable, even. But the moment passes, and Laurel quickly says, "Makes sense. If I were a former MI6 agent who decided to offer her services to the highest bidder and betrayed her country in the process, I wouldn't feel right with that name either."

"I kill to keep order in the world," Nyssa says curtly. "Without the League of Shadows, our world would be one of chaos, anarchy. And you cannot tell me that your job is not the same. We are the same, you and I."

"If you're the same as me, you'll hand over the intel you have and I'll kill you quickly," Laurel snarls, but no sooner do the words leave her mouth does she see the bullets shatter the glass of the window, and in that split second she instinctively kicks Nyssa to the floor – her hands being otherwise occupied – just in time for them both to avoid the next hail of gunfire.

Moments later Laurel feels the thick material around her wrists slice cleanly open with Nyssa's dagger. As soon she's free, she climbs over the bed and rolls onto the floor, cursing Nyssa for taking her guns. Without weapons she's forced to run, ducking and managing to get out the door just in time.

But then Laurel pauses, hesitating, because the woman who is, she supposes, her former captor, is now in mortal danger, firing arrows back at whoever is shooting at them, and despite everything she knows she can't just leave Nyssa behind. Laurel waits, poised with her back against the wall outside the door, waiting for the gunfire to subside once more, but to her relief, when it does Nyssa is by Laurel's side in a flash.

"Let's go," Laurel says, and without another word Nyssa and Laurel run down the hallway together.

"You are wondering who attacked us," Nyssa says, sounding only a little breathless. "It was not the League."

"Yeah, I know, your people don't do firearms – yet another thing about your organisation that I will never understand," Laurel replies, kicking open the door to the fire escape. They climb up, being only a couple of storeys from the roof of the building, and it's only when they get to the top that Nyssa speaks.

"Firearms are weapons of emotion, something the League of Shadows advises strongly against." Laurel just makes a face, though, and Nyssa shakes her head. "But this is not of import right now."

"Do you always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you just time travelled from Victorian England."

Nyssa doesn't immediately reply, instead bending her knees and jumping elegantly onto the neighbouring roof. Laurel follows suit, doing the same. She lands more clumsily, but she blames the tranquiliser that's still probably in her system.

"I will readily humour you with the story of the origins of my speech patterns once we have completed our mission," Nyssa says, holding out her hand for Laurel to help her to her feet. Laurel doesn't take it, though; she gets up on her own, regarding Nyssa with a frown.

"You want to team up with me?"

"I was merely looking to procure intelligence," Nyssa says, "same as you, in order to take down Deathstroke's army before he succeeds in bringing back the Manhattan Project."

"So you do know about it," Laurel breathes, more to herself than to Nyssa. "But, what, suddenly you had a change of heart? How do I know you're not working with Wilson?"

But for some reason Nyssa then looks away from Laurel, breaks her gaze. "Because," Nyssa says finally, "I would not work with a man who murdered my sister."

"Your sister…" Laurel repeats slowly.

Again, Nyssa doesn't immediately reply, instead lowering herself down the side of the building snd climbing down the drainpipes. Laurel does the same, following her down, and she's not sure why but there's this strange kind of fragile trust between them now – at least enough for Laurel to be able to climb down without worrying about Nyssa yanking at her ankle or something. "Her name was Talia," she says finally once they reach the bottom. "And in answer to your other question… you are right. I did have a change of heart."

"Why?" Laurel presses, and part of her wants to say she's sorry about this Talia, but another part of her knows how ineffectual such a platitude would be.

"I know a killer when I see one. At least, I thought I did. But killers don't save lives. Not the ones belonging to people like me. For some reason you did. And I assume you would rather work with me, Taer Jameelah, than have me interrogate you."

Of course, it takes a lot of persuasion – that and several more rounds of gunfire that only just miss the pair of them – before Laurel accepts Nyssa's offer. Not to mention Laurel insists they release Tatsu (thankfully, Laurel's partner is well-versed in completing missions off-book, and she manages to talk Babs into teaming up with the League over their comms once they're restored).

Still, a week later, with Wilson and his army dead, the League only marginally depleted in manpower and the Birds of Prey division of the CIA down with another crisis averted, the last person Laurel expects at the door of her hotel room is Nyssa.

"What are you doing here?" Laurel demands, but she steps back to let Nyssa pass nevertheless. Then she reaches out and grabs the knee-length leather jacket on her bed, pulling it on and doing up the zip.

"Looking for you, actually," Nyssa replies. She looks Laurel up and down with something that seems like appreciation. "I – hear you are returning home."

And for some reason Laurel softens a bit as she sits down on her bed. "Yeah, as much as I'd love to sun myself off on Moroccan beach and maybe eat some food that isn't hummus, I have a job to get back to."

"As do I. But I wanted to – stop by. And thank you."

Laurel pauses for a moment, and then it clicks in her head. "For letting you take the kill shot with Deathstroke."

"I admit I would have preferred to use a weapon other than a firearm," Nyssa concedes, "but nevertheless – I appreciate it all the same. Particularly as I know your mission came before mine."

"I like to think my mission is always about getting justice," Laurel says. "You got yours."

"I wish I knew how to thank you. But in lieu of that – and for allowing me to walk free – you can consider me forever in your debt, Dinah."

Laurel finds herself reaching out, touching Nyssa's arm. "I don't go by my mom's name either," she tells her. "It's just Laurel."

And at this Nyssa smiles. "Okay, 'just Laurel'."

"Though your other name for me works too," Laurel adds before she can stop herself.

"Well, then, Taer Jameelah… it was… an honour doing business with you."

She turns to leave, but for some reason Laurel stands up, stops her, tugs at Nyssa's sleeve until she's facing Laurel again. "By the way," Laurel says, "I was wrong. You do deserve your mother's name."

"I do?" Nyssa says softly. It's only then that Laurel realises their sudden proximity to one another, and the fact that her thumb is rubbing against a spot on Nyssa's wrist. The gentle throb of her pulse against Laurel's fingers is enough to make her breath catch in her throat, and she's sure she can feel Nyssa's sharp intake of breath as Laurel's hand slowly moves down until her fingers are twined with Nyssa's.

"Yeah, you do, Ameena," Laurel replies. There's something about the way Nyssa's eyes have darkened, how she is ever so lightly biting her lower lip as if seriously considering something, that makes Laurel's toes curl and her heart thump in anticipation.

In the end, neither of them remembers who kisses whom first, only that Laurel finds herself walking backwards until her legs hit the bed. It's mostly a blur from there, of swiftly undone zips Laurel's soft moan of frustration when her jacket gets stuck around her wrist and Nyssa's hands – usually so steady, typical of most archers Laurel's come across – are shaking as she attempts to undo the clasp of Laurel's bra.

But then their eyes meet and Nyssa's hand stills and Laurel smiles slightly, raises her eyebrows at her and then reaches behind her to unclasp her bra. Their fingers brush against each other as Laurel flings it aside and lies back beneath her and her nipples pebble even before Nyssa reaches out tentatively to oh-so-lightly cup her right breast – probably because Nyssa's still-clothed knees have dug into Laurel's hips. There's this delicious kind of friction between Laurel's bare skin and the cotton of Nyssa's clothing as Nyssa kisses her way up Laurel's neck and then her lips, tongue darting into Laurel's mouth.

(They don't go too slowly, though, because it seems they both like it hard and fast, and before they know it Nyssa's sliding her fingers into the waistband of Laurel's leather pants, not even bothering to take them off properly, just yanking them down to knee level with one sharp tug and making Laurel gasp when Nyssa's flicks at her wet centre. Laurel's come once, twice and Nyssa's on the cusp of her second climax when Laurel decides to tease her a bit, dragging her fingers up Nyssa's wet thigh. Every now and then her hand skims Nyssa's entrance, and it's only when Nyssa lets out a heated " _yallah"_ that Laurel finally relents and loses herself in the sharp sweetness between Nyssa's legs.)

Meanwhile, in earth-3, Laurel Lance is a public defender. After having a close call at Iron Heights with a couple of corrupt cops – and realising there's only so much you can do with a police-style baton against actual police – she decides to go for martial arts lessons.

She enrols with Nyssa Raatko, reportedly the best martial arts trainer in Starling City. Laurel's told Nyssa is formidable, ruthless to the point of harshness, so she's surprised when the steely edge disappears from her trainer's voice after their first session as Nyssa asks her about the purple bruises that decorate Laurel's arms and neck.

Laurel doesn't immediately answer. She stops, turns away from her new companion, and she busies herself by wiping the sweat off her forehead. "That," she says finally, "is a very long story."

"Whoever he is," Nyssa says, narrowing her eyes, "you are far better off without him."

And somehow that makes Laurel laugh.

"What makes you so sure it was a man?"

"Because," Nyssa says softly, "no self-respecting woman would be so… brutish. At least – not in my experience."

But Laurel shakes her head. "It's not what you think. I'm in a – line of work that I'm starting to realise is dangerous. These –" she gestures to the bruises on her wrist – "aren't from a boyfriend. They're from a couple of corrupt cops who tried to kill one of my clients in Iron Heights the other day."

"You defend criminals?" Nyssa asks, and the scepticism isn't lost to Laurel even with her trainer's unusual accent.

"Sometimes – most of the time – the justice system doesn't work. Especially when you live in the Glades and can't afford some hotshot lawyer to get you out of tricky situations. Especially when you get dealt a bad hand, get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and then have to pay the price – and I don't mean prison time."

"You mean police brutality," Nyssa says slowly.

Laurel nods. "To start. But not just that. Evidence has been tampered with, drugs tests falsified… a lot of people ask me why I defend criminals, but – it's not that simple."

Nyssa shrugs. "The things we care about in life, the things we believe in… they are never simple. Regardless, it is a comfort, albeit a small one, to hear that your injuries did not originate from a man in your life."

"The only man in my life right now is my father," Laurel tells her with a smile. "Besides, my attackers? Not really my type. And not because they're dirty cops."

"Then why?" Nyssa asks, raising her eyebrows in curiosity.

"Because," Laurel says, and she turns away, now, widening her stance, her fist colliding with the punchbag twice, "they're – not girls."

She expects Nyssa to say something, or at least be surprised, but she doesn't. If anything, except for a slight upturning of her lips into the beginnings of a smile, Nyssa acts like Laurel hasn't said anything, before swiftly landing a punch on the punchbag. It's louder than Laurel's, more powerful.

"The power comes from your hips," Nyssa tells her, demonstrating once more with another solid punch, "like so."

It's only several weeks and a lot of intense (not mention sweaty) sparring later that Laurel tells Nyssa how nervous she was after she had said that. They're at this small tearoom called Rosie's, and Laurel's munching appreciatively on a warm scone loaded with jam and cream as she watches Nyssa for her reaction.

"You did not appear nervous."

"I've… actually never outed myself to anyone before," she admits. "I didn't think I would ever tell anyone. You're literally the only person on the planet who knows."

And this time Nyssa smiles. "I feel honoured to be the exception." She lifts her steaming cup of tea to her lips and takes a sip. "Thank you, Laurel. Since moving to Starling City, it has been hard to adjust to my new home, my new job. I have been in need of companionship, and you have afforded me great generosity these past few weeks."

Laurel smiles back. There's something endearing about Nyssa's overly formal speech patterns – she talks like she's just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel, just with a more refined accent.

"Well, thank _you_ for teaching me how to kick ass and take names even when I'm not in the courtroom."

"Believe me, it is my pleasure."

(It's not long after this that Laurel gets to experience that very pleasure for herself – in Nyssa's flushed cheeks as she back-kicks the door to Laurel's apartment shut and lets Laurel press her against the wall, in Nyssa's eyes, darkened with arousal when Laurel slides her fingers into Nyssa's damp panties, and in the hot hum of Laurel's name on Nyssa's lips as she reaches her climax.)

But sometimes – often – the universe almost wins in its effort to keep the two of them apart. Take earth-17, for example, several universes away, where Detective Dinah Lance folds her arms and looks Nyssa up and down approvingly as her partner adjusts the dark blue dress she's just pulled on.

"Well, you look pretty fucking hot, which means I must have good taste, Detective," Dinah says with a grin. She expects Nyssa to reprimand her, as she usually does when Laurel utters even the mildest swear words, but instead Dinah is surprised to see a slight flush appear on Nyssa's neck. For some reason Nyssa can't quite meet Dinah's eyes for a moment, but then the spell passes and after blinking twice, Nyssa shakes her head with a sigh.

"You do have good taste," Nyssa admits, looking at herself in the mirror. They're in Dinah's bridal dressing room, which is somewhat cramped because of the various jewellery boxes open at their feet.

"I know I do," Dinah replies cheerfully. "I'm glad it fits. I didn't think Ollie would be able to pick it up in time, to be honest –"

"Well, I know you are marrying someone with impeccable timing," Nyssa says good-naturedly with only a little bit of sarcasm.

"He'd better not be late to the altar," Dinah says under her breath, more to herself than to Nyssa. But Nyssa hears anyway, and Dinah's surprised when her friend places her hand on Dinah's cheek.

"He loves you," Nyssa says softly. "He would not be late on the most important day of both your lives. Not for the most important person in _his_ life."

Dinah reaches up, squeezes Nyssa's fingers, and on an impulse, she hugs her partner. "Thank you."

"You do not need to ever thank me, ya Dinah."

But at this Dinah pulls away, looking up at Nyssa in concern and this time it's her turn to cradle Nyssa's cheek. "Hey, is everything okay?"

The moment she speaks, though, the spell seems to be broken and Nyssa nods quickly. "Yes, of course." Then she bends down, lifting the skirt of her dress and revealing an empty holster around her ankle before withdrawing a slim stun gun from her jacket hanging on the back of a chair. "Do not give me that look," Nyssa says.

Dinah folds her arms. "Is that really necessary? "

"You are a detective," Nyssa tells her. "More importantly – you are my partner. It is my job to – as you say – have your back."

"Even on my wedding day?"

Nyssa straightens before sitting in her chair so she can strap on her heels. " _Especially_ on your wedding day. There is still a substantial security risk. And as much as you may love him… your soon-to-be husband is a lover, not a fighter."

Dinah laughs. "Yeah, I mean, the most dangerous weapon Ollie's ever used was probably to chop up butternut squash."

"That is what happens when you marry a chef," Nyssa says teasingly.

Dinah tilts her head a little to one side. "So, what, that means you're my guardian angel now?"

Nyssa chuckles. "Something along those lines, perhaps. Regardless of your marital status, I hope you know that I will always consider you my partner."

"Yeah, of course," Dinah replies, surprised she's even mentioning it, really. "Right back atcha. And it's not like I'm going anywhere, you know. You're stuck with me forever. That's a promise."

"I am glad to hear it," Nyssa replies softly. Dinah holds out her hand, offering it to her partner, and Nyssa takes it gratefully, getting to her feet.

"Nearly time," Dinah says, studying herself in the mirror. Her dark hair is pulled up into a French twist, and she pushes back a couple of stray strands behind her ear while looking closely at her reflection for any blemishes her makeup artist might have missed.

It's unexpected, therefore, when she feels the softest kiss on her cheek and Nyssa's hand brushing against her wrist as she hands Dinah her bouquet.

"You look beautiful," Nyssa tells her quietly, and before Dinah can reply, Nyssa's at the door.

"See you inside," Dinah calls to her partner's retreating back, and Nyssa turns back round, smiles at Dinah with such warmth that despite the lump that is suddenly in Dinah's throat her heart can't help but soar anyway.

(When Dinah and her new husband are en route to the Canary Islands via Ollie's family boat for their honeymoon, though, she doesn't expect the ensuing storm or the spilt wine or her own scream of terror as she watches Oliver drown right before her eyes and get washed away to the bottom of the ocean.

Most of all, though, she doesn't expect for her last thought – before everything goes black – to be not of Ollie but of Nyssa, Nyssa and her sharp cheekbones and dark blue dress and ankle holster and that ever so tentative kiss on her cheek.)


End file.
